The Perfect Medium
by Cvaboda
Summary: Bella can see things others can't. A curse that has been brought upon her, and is driving her down to the edge of insanity. Speechless, and alone she is slowly approaching ultimatum. Edward, a vampire, who is way past the edges of insanity, was only searching for his next meal. Wills clash, paths cross, and a sacred silence may be broken, all in search for the perfect medium.
1. Chapter 1

Its Thanksgiving again.

I know that it comes every year, on the fourth thursday of November. How silly of me to think that it wouldn't come.

It's just shocking how swiftly Time flows around me. It seems that only a few days ago that I hung last Christmas's decorations on my shop door and counter.

I watch the snow falling swiftly, and I hear the laughter of children playing in the park just outside of my apartment window.

They shout at each other in glee of the holiday. Running, completely tangled up the relationships yet very much oblivious to the various colors of string that fills the field.

As I watch these children, laughing, shouting, kissing, pouting, a foreign emotion runs through my veins, shocking me with its coldness.

This emotion, it triggers some very alien reactions inside of me.

I want to scream for someone, I want to cry for someone...something. I want to speak, and I want someone to understand me.

But there is nothing to understand.

Words have always been there.

_I have always been fascinated with words. How they are just many symbols strung together as one. Sometimes just a few lines carelessly grouped together. Yet, they mean so much more, than ink on paper. Words can have your life poured into them, or they can have death behind their meanings_

A candle flickers beside me, and my attention is diverted to it. I forgot to pay the bill for the light, so the light man just shut it off. I got the feeling that he didn't like me very much.

I suppose I could blackmail him, into giving me light for free. He was a very disgusting man, something I wish I didn't know but if you see words in front of you, you can't help but read them.

He had three affairs with his wife, but she is still oblivious.

Poor woman.

I know the man wouldn't be threatened by me, a skinny girl, about half his size trying to talk him into giving her light for free. See, that's the problem.

Floating.

_I am an outsider to these things you call words. I always wonder, would it be pleasurable to say one? My lips forming the word, my lungs breathing the air and my throat making vibrations._

Impossible.

_I cannot to do such a thing, it is simply out of my reach. I used to imagine talking, communicating, with another human being. To see the emotion in their eyes, to feel my own sensations ripping through me. That is just a fantasy, one I cannot afford anymore._

Slowly, I turn away from the window and turn to the dark room behind. I can make out the outline of my piano, and the outlines tall dark bookcases that I got at an antique store. Tonight, it would be just me and them. In my mind, I imagine a big table, with turkey and mashed potatoes. There is conversation and laughter bouncing around the three people sitting behind the table. I sigh, knowing that these were-

Fantasies.

_I used to show the world to others as I saw it. Describing proved useless. Showing was out of the question. The Others did not like the world as I saw it, saying that I was lying, I was dangerous. That I needed to be put away._

_The Others' tenacious fingers were what took my words away, putting them just in my sight but not in my reach._

My fingers went to my throat, knowing if such a thing were possible, the conversation would only be held between two people. I would just sit and bask in the warmth of the food and emotions.

Theres no point in denying it. I can't speak, nor will I ever be able to. Whenever I make my mind up to, my mouth opens but just before my lungs can breath, my body is taken by an unbearable pain. Imagine falling onto rocks from a cliff, while simultaneously being squeezed to death at the stomach. But every time I try, the pain turns more and more painful.

I prefer silence to feeling the pain of a violently dying person one thousand times over in one moment, and knowing that at the end of it all I will still be alive.

Sitting down on my carpet, I place the candle in front of me. I close my eyes, and let the laughter of the children invade my presence with a comforting lull. For a few moments, I let myself join their ranks of playing little solders. I feel the sting of cold snow on my fingers and the wind, ever so often, blowing around my ears.

No one should ever spend Thanksgiving alone.

Yet, how can you spend Thanksgiving with someone? How does that feel?

Help

_I guess this is my silent outcry for help._

_I don't know why yet. Maybe it is to ease this alien feeling that is eating up my whole existence. This dark void that is slowing opening up for no reason._

_Maybe it is just for someone to hold my hand and tell me that they understand._

_Even though they don't._

_**Please review!**_

**I did post this some time ago, but I completely messed up the plot and after some time decided (with the prompting of my friend) to give it another chance. **

_**Tell me what you thought, please?**_

**Cvaboda**


	2. Innocence

_Whoever blushes is already guilty; true innocence is ashamed of nothing.  
Jean-Jacques Rousseau_

I think of innocence as a flower. Growing up fragile and yet strong in its beauty. As we grow older, the flower blooms and then dies. Our childlike faces disappear into the troublesome youth and finally settle into the adult dignity that we spend the rest of days in.

It is very rare that you see someone who is purely innocent, not that I am denying that there is such a thing but, how refreshing it is when we do.

Today, I saw innocence.

I own a bookstore in the middle of town. Many souls have walked into my store and sought refuge in one of the many books that are standing on my shelves.

These books, in turn, are waiting for someone to find refuge in them.

Today, innocence walked into my store and shot me a huge smile. I didn't acknowledge, just watched her walk in and run hungry golden eyes over the many titles just at her fingertips.

Funny, how this innocence has a pair of golden eyes. Such a pretty color.

She made an attempt at petty conversation with me. Quickly found out how fruitless her attempts would be.

Innocence was a lot older than I anticipated. Her wide eyes were framed with black pixie-like hair and her small, lean body proved that she was about twenty years of age.

How in the world did she manage to hold onto it?

"Do you believe in monsters?"

Her question finally pierced my vowed veil of silence. I looked up to her from the book I was reading.

Yes, I wanted to say, I do believe in monsters since I am one.

I only managed a small smile as I rang up her books, and gave her the change I owed.

"Keep it," She said flippantly, and walked out.

Innocence is stubborn. It refuses to believe anything bad about anyone or anything. As soon as you open Innocence's eyes, it withers away.

She is new, that is all that I know. In this small wretched town everyone knows their neighbor, and the neighbors neighbor. There are three small apartment building in the heart of the town, or "downtown" as they call it. Small quaint cafes, a Trader Joe's and a whole foods is all that the glorious heart of the small town has.

Then, my bookstore, nestled in between the a coffeehouse and a thrift shop. Not many of the town citizens are regulars to my store. Only about five retirees and the occasional student that has lost a class copy.

I make sure that I am always in stock of all of the high school curriculum books. Middle schoolers and elementary students are very rare, because their parents are still keeping watch over exactly what they do with their school supplies.

There are exceptions to every rule.

A few months ago, an Indian family moved into a house near the edge of downtown. A boy, of about thirteen years wandered into my store, looking for a companion to spend his idle hours with.

He didn't find a suitable companion, although he came every week on saturday exactly at twelve right after I came back from lunch break.

I started to get suspicious that it wasn't for the books that he came for. Carefully, though, I remained indifferent. Another innocent soul does not need to meet its death.

Until he did the impossible.

He picked up a copy of _Enders Game _and payed exactly the amount in cash. I smiled at him and he smiled back. He left, tucking the book in his armpit.

Later that day, I was organizing the cash thingy when a completely white bill popped into sight. Of course, as I found out a few moments later that it was not a bill at all but a note.

In boyish handwriting were written the words;

**My name is Jake. What is yours?**

The sweetness of the gesture shocked me to the core. No one has ever tried to pry anything out of me, and the tenacity of the teenager surprised me. To the towns people, I had been written off as an outcast the moment my pale face appeared in their territory. I read them off as social butterflies and they read me off as a social pariah, which not too far from the truth.

Life was okay for the first time.

And, for the first time I wasn't afraid to admit it.

Until Jake.

Until Innocence.

I guess for every story you need to have some kind of climax, and here I was, hoping that those two would be the only climax my life would ever have.

Being proven wrong is like winning the lottery.

You never see it coming.

_Nothing is mine. Except plot. _

_Cvaboda_


End file.
